LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

T ^'^—^ — 

Chap. Coi'Viio'lit No. 

8helf..i.L0_ci. S 7 

■ Hr^a 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 




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SPARKS AND 
FLAMES 

POEMS 

By 
Henry Wilson Stratton 

With a Preface by Hezekiah Butterworth 




M. F. Mansfield & A. Wessels 

New York 



Copyright 

1899 

M. F. Mansfield & A. Wessels 



TWO COPIES RECEIVED 

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SECOND COPY, 






^'Jl 



To the Spirit of Poesy : which 
warms and vivifies the cold 
routine of daily life, and illumines 
our minds, quickening perception 
of inward truth : these poems are 
dedicated. 



(Jprefoce. 

In these days, when verses are almost 
as thick as roses in June, it is only 
poenis of distinct inspiration that have 
a new field, and make an impression 
and live. The poems in this collec- 
tion may claim distinct inspiration 
and to have the mission of inner sight. 
The thought is occult ; it interprets ; 
it deals not with effects, but with 
causes. It seeks the Soul of things. 
It interprets life. 

It is said that there is nothing that 
can be imagined, desired, or sought 
that cannot be achieved. The writer 
of these pooms has had to struggle 
against dimness of outward vision. 
But like the compensations that came 
to Milton and Blacklock, and even 
to old Homer, his inward vision has 
been opened and his soul sees. 

The poems express this inward light 
and sight. They belong to the hidden 
spiritual world. And yet their vocab- 
ulary is large and unique ; and their 
figures of speech not only beautiful, 
but most happily chosen. Some of 
the comparisons between the seen and 
the unseen are like visions : they re- 
move the veil, and afford glimpses of 
the whole universe of life, that spirit- 
ual sphere in which all things are one. 
It gives one pleasure to commend a 



work of such rare literary and spiritual 
qualities. It is a beautiful book of 
the soul, and to those who live for 
the soul it cannot fail to be a most 
helpful revelation of new thought. As 
music is the highest language of the 
soul, so much of the thought of the 
book is associated with themes of 
this divine art of interpretation. The 
writer himself is a musician, and so 
has often made music the subject of 
his poems. 

Every one must wish such a volume 
the largest success, for it has distinct 
inspiration and makes clearer the light 
of life and brighter the spiritual hori- 
zons. It has a mission — may its 
readers be many. 

Hezekiah Butterworth. 



€onfent0. 

PAGE 

To March 11 

O Life I Thou Beauteous Fire 12 

Sun-Blood, 13 

To Life 15 

The Sun-Christ, . 16 

At Dawn 17 

At Eve, 18 

The Circle of Life, 19 

The Peak of Night 20 

Lyric to an April Morning, 21 

The Angel's Mission, 22 

True Music, 24 

God's Organ, 25 

The Army of the Grasses, ..... 26 

Feathered Music, 29 

June '31 

To the Leaves, 32 

To a Clover Blossom, 33 

Strawberries, 34 

Idyl, 35 

Sun-Money, ....... 36 

Alone, 39 

June's Thunder Bell, 40 

To a Rose, 42 

Summer's Song, 43 

Sunrise, 44 

Reverie, 46 

The Bell-Buoy 47 

Her Voice, 49 

Dead Sunlight, 51 

Dead Soul-Light, 62 



PAGE 

Hurrah, Boys ! 53 

Sunbeam and Moonbeam, 54 

Out in the Night, 55 

The Death of Summer. 57 

The Land of Silence, 58 

Autumn Pictures, 61 

A Bunch of Grapes 62 

In a Factory, ........ 63 

Silence, 65 

The Fire of the Leaves, 67 

Where Then is Music ? 68 

Love's Freedom, 69 

To an Autumn Leaf, 70 

The Coming of Winter 71 

Passion and Peace 74 

Riddle of the Snow-Flakes, 75 

The Snow-Cloth Makers, 76 

Her Touch 78 

Reversible Poem, 79 

East and West 81 

To My Love Across the Snow, . . . .83 

Young Christmas, .84 

Wrinkled Brow and Dimpled Chin, . . .85 

Morn and Night, 87 



to (Slarc^. 



Loud trumpeter cf Spring ! 
Blowing the wintry notes 
From out the tune of things, 
That warmer tones may float 
Through music's honeyed realm- 
Soon to thy blare, so bleak, 
The flower-flutes shall reply, 
And up and down their stems 
Sing forth their leaf-notes green ; 
Then shall the 'cello bees 
Buzz into unison 
With piccolo of bird; 
While zephyrs draw the bow 
O'er strings of twig and bough, 
Making sweet violins 
Of all the budding trees. 
Blow, trumpeter ! blow out 
The frozen chords of sound ; 
Blow in the warmth, the life, 
The harmonies of heat. 



("By kind permission of " The Youth's Companion."} 



incendiary Spring ! 
How at thy touch all life is set a-burning! 

Thine is the power to bring 
Anew to Matter's realm the spiritual yearning. 

Behold each spire of grass I 
A slender flame of greenest animation ! 

The zephyrs as they pass 
Fan the fresh fields to emerald conflagration. 

Up fly those sparks so bright — 
The bee and butterfly in showers exciting, 

To wing their minute flight, 
Oft in the green combustion re-alighting. 

White-hot the daisies burn I 
The brands of buttercup and dandelion 

Each other's glow return, 
While jets of color burst from many a scion. 

The furnace-trees o'erflow 
With molten verdure, fast their lives consuming; 

While petalled pink and snow 
The surge of leafy heat are bright-illuming. 

With bluest fire of day, 
Blazed o'er with gold, with fleecy smoke inblending, 

Mark how the dome of May 
O'er all this loveliness, in love is bending! 

O Life ! thou beauteous fire I 
Though unto few thine inner self revealing, 

Thy color-sheaths inspire 
The hearts of all with holiest thought and feeling. 

CBjr kind perviissioH of " The Vouih's Companion.") 



Golden heart of Day I 
Beating midst the blue, 

Swung from gray to gray 
Into mortal view. 

How through arteries wide 

Of uncharted sky, 
Pours thy yellow tide 

Surging silently. 

How thy sun-blood warm 
Thrills the veins of air, 

Tingling Morn's fair form 
Into rapture rare. 

In the glory-flow, 

Hark, the feathered throng I 
Darting to and fro — 

Corpuscles of song. 

Hear the twigs and boughs — 
Bones of Day they seem. 

Stretch themselves or drowse 
In ecstatic dream ; 

Sucking up the gold 

Streaming thickly down, 

Flesh of green to hold 
Forming on the brown. 

See the grasses dip — 
Nerves of Day, so fine, 

Feeding, root and tip 
On the ample shine. 



With papillaed reach 
Feeling for the world, 

Quivering forth the speech 
Deep in ganglia curled. 

List the breezes breathe — 
Day's emotions large, 

How they sigh and seethe 
With her soul in charge ; 

Blow her thought awake 
Into scent and bloom, 

And the life-pulse shake 
From each seedy tomb. 

Flow, O blood of flame, 
Round your circuit sweep! 

Till her quickened frame 
Into beauty leap, — 

Till your amber hue 

With the earth-stains rife, 
Sullied, passing through 

All the forms of life, — 

Changed to light unseen, 
Darkened into heat. 

To the sun-heart's sheen 
Makes a glad retreat ; 

Through night's purple vein 
Pulsing large and free. 

Eager to regain 
All its purity. 

Thus your ring complete, 
Wondrous in its might — 

Death of light in heat. 
Birth of heat in light. 



O Life ! 'tis wondrous sweet to live for thee 

And feed the soul upon thy liberty ! 

Yea, gorge the soul and be an epicure, 

Thy freedom's daintiest morsel to allure ! 

Few fatten on thy rich, imperial food ; 

Few are the banqueters at thy vast table ; 

For most to be thy guests are still too rude. 

Or deem the splendid banquet but a fable. 

Most are but nibblers of the glorious fare 

That thou hast spread for all with generous care ; 

Their careless lips are strangers to thy wine ; 
They never taste thy flavors so divine, 

Nor smell the spicy odors that arise 

In sprays of fragrance from thy fair supplies. 

Most, with a hasty, undigested glance, 

Swallow the mouldy bread of ignorance. 

And grow dyspeptic on their discontent. 

Some panacea e'er seeking to invent 

That shall renew the stomach of their lot ; 

Yet with its deathful diet quarrel not. 

And who shall give these starving millions, eyes, 

The leanness of their lives to realize ; 

Their skeletons of spirit to behold. 

And lack of that immortal, vital gold ? 

Who shall awake their dumb, inert repose. 

The deaf ears of indifference unclose ; 

Teach them to touch and smell and taste at last, 

The largess of thy bountiful repast ? 

Who but the joyous, heaven-proclaiming poet? 

For truth o 'erf ills him and he must o'erflow it — 

List to the music of the muse of song ! 

She sings of thee unto the deathward throng! 

Now blow ! ye breezes, waft her theme along ! 



.^ 

Now from the tomb of night, 

Dawn rolls the cloud away ; 

And wrapt in glory bright 

Rises the Lord of day. 
The essence of the dark awakes its primal pomp to claim ; 
The east, all crimson-dappled, breaks m spray of golden flame ; 
The morn, hid in the under world, now lifts the lid of gloom, 
And poising for her blueward flight, unfolds her wings of bloom ; 
Light, crucified in yester's sunset gore, its hue redeems; 
The Sun-Christ, resurrected, shines with glad immortal beams. 

Up from his twilight bier 

His amber spirit springs, 

While musics far and near 

Unfold their raptured wings. 

Mist-memories of his death 

In scarlet scars and seams 

Fade as the morning's breath 

Blows in the purer beams. 

'Tis nature's saviour, come 

Her life-pulse to renew 

And teach her soul so numb 

To find the heavenward clue. 



®f ®ai»m 



When twilight's rosy fringes 
With stars are beaded round. 

And from the nest of silence 
Comes many a winged sound ; 

When color-sprites are painting 
The drowsy blooms awake, 

Plying their dewy brushes 
The fairest tints to make ; 

When up the dawn, some zephyr 
Comes searching for the sun. 

Breathing the first beams onward 
Until the mighty one — 

The sun-heart of creation — 
Throbs into glory bright, 

Beating its golden rhythm 
Through all the veins of night ; 

Oh then how sweet to wander, 
Companionless and free. 

Careless of care, unthinking, 
Wrapt in the things that be — 

Lost unto self and sorrow. 
Vanished from conscious sense. 

Merged in the golden splendor — 
Here, yet forever hence. 



^i (EDe. 



When twilight's purple fringes 
"With stars are beaded o'er, 

And in the ear of silence 
A thousand musics pour 

Their soft, subduing measures; 

When from the sleeping blooms 
The spirit floats in fragrance 

Across the shimmering glooms ; 

When down the sky, some zephyr 
Comes searching for the moon, 

And blows the prelude glimmer 
Into the full-orbed tune ; 

When leaves like spirit voices 
Call to the startled soul, 

And whisper of those beauties 
That through the ethers roll ; 

Oh then how sweet to wander, 
Companionless and free. 

Careless of care unthinking, 
Wrapt in the things that be ; 

Lost unto self and sorrow, 

Vanished from conscious sense, 

Merged in the magic beauty — 
Here, yet forever hence. 



t^c Circfe of £ife. 

Life is coming, life is going, 

'Midst the paths of peace and pain ; 

Endlessly the blood is flowing 

Back and forth in heart and brain. 

To and fro the breeze is breathing 
Through the niighty lungs of air ; 

Up and down the sea is seething 
Like a monster in his lair. 

In and out the stars are stealing 
'Tween the folds of day and night ; 

Far and near the bells are pealing 
In the depth or on the height. 

Wings are somewhere always whirring, 

Echo never is at rest, 
Motion is forever spruring 

Onward to some goal unguessed. 

Love itself is ever changing. 
Constant things to fickle turn, 

God seems ever re-arranging. 
Lest mankind His secret learn. 

'Tis a race of endless running 
For a prize unknown and far ; 

'Tis a chain whose circuit, cunning, 
None may imitate nor mar. 

Ours it is, to simply follow 

Round and round with willing feet, 
Be it hill or be it hollow, 

Trusting in His love complete. 



t^ (J^eaft of ()fliQ% 



To climb ! 

The time 

Sublime! 

Your heaven is here. 

Of truth is near, 

Now tier on tier 

Awake your sleeping sight I 

Your invitation bright — 

Dawn? 'Tis the peak of night, 

All things the call to rise obey. 

Fragrance and music lead the way. 

The dark slants up to find the day, 

Why mount ye not the spirit's sunward slope ? 

Starless and moonless, strangers unto hope — 

What is your comfort as ye onward grope? 

Whose cold nocturnity no spiritual ray illumes, 

Shut in the silence dread, of self-created tombs 

O ye who dwell amid the deep material gloomSj 

{^Read frojn bottom tipivards^ 



fel^ric to an ($rpnf (gloming. 

April morn ! blithe April morn ! 
What though my life of joys is shorn, 
Bleeding from discord's jagged wound, 
The strings in Pleasure's harp untuned. 
Given the staff, denied the strain, 
Jarred by the piercing notes of pain. 
Until my spirit worn and wrung 

With eager music all unsung, 

Sends forth a heavenward yearning cry 

Claiming its need to sing or die — 

Ah, me 1 what though all tossed and torn ! 

With thee, 1 cannot feel forlorn. 

Thy sunbeams flash through all my frame. 

Re-kindling Hope's expiring flame, 

Thy bird-songs ripple through my heart 

And solace to my thoughts impart. 

Thy zephyrs waft my night away. 

And now I glimpse Joy's breaking day. 

My pulses catch thy glowing mood 

Quick-beating forth their gratitude. 

The Spring that makes thy presence bright 

So thrills me with its fresh delight, 

That I am Spring — the Spring is I — 

1 am the breeze^the birds — the sky — 
O April morn ! blithe April morn I 
With thee, my life anew is born. 



(By permission of " The Youth's Companion,") 
21 



t^c (^ngef (gtiseion. 



An angel flew to earth one night 
And paused in a star-illumined dell, 

Where sat a youth whose soul was bright 
With more of truth than books can tell. 

But o'er the brightness of that soul 
Deep yearning like a shadow lay, 

And held within its dark control 
His shining life, a helpless prey. 

Oh, greenly fertile was his mind. 

But parched and barren was his heart, 

Minerva to his lot was kind 
But Venus had forgot her part. 

For knowledge, yea, he ever yearned, 
He sought to lose himself in lore. 

The while for love his spirit burned ; 

But now his hope was scorched and sore. 

The angel saw, then flew afar 

To where a maiden knelt in prayer, 

Her tresses bathed in moon and star, 
Disordered by a drear despair. 

Wild wept her spirit to its God — 
" Father, how long this boon deny? 

Alone, unloved, the way I've trod, 
I pray Thee, now my need supply." 

Between those wistful stranger souls 
Love-threads of gold the angel wove. 

Till in that web's resplendent folds 
The sufferers felt each other's love. 



Led by that visitant divine, 

At last each other's eyes they knew, 
And o'er their lives through shade and shine 

The angel bent, though hid from view. 

O ye who oft for love have cried. 

Be sure that God your need will meet. 

Nor space nor time can e'er divide 
The hearts that for each other beat. 



$irue (glueic. 

True music dwells not in the outward notes, 
But in the depth and silences between — 

E'en as the flower is in the breath that floats 
Among the petals, fragrant yet unseen. 

For sound is but the wall, uncouth and plain. 
Whereby the garden of the tune is known — 

And all the rhythmic hushes of the strain 
Are wickets in the barrier of tone. 

'Tis through these narrow niches — nooks of rest — 
That music's voice to ears attuned is brought; 

Tis through these tiny gates of silence blessed 
That deeper meanings from within are caught. 

Let those too dull for music's finer charm 
Extol the shell of song, the storm of sound, 

But from the storm remove each lull and calm. 
And where would then sweet melody be found? 



An organ is the Spring, 
And May-days are the stops. 
The sunbeams are the keys 
That, yie ding to the touch 
Of music's master — Him, 
The great God-organist — 
Unclose the frosty valves 
Of bulb and root and seed. 
The earth, as bellows, swells 
Her juices rich with life 
Through many a range of pipes- 
From tiniest grassy stalk. 
Flower-stem and fluty reed. 
To diapasoned oak — 
Till modulated forth 
In mingling melodies 
Of odor, form and hue, 
Bright music blooms her way, 
So ravishing the sense 
That all her beauty rare, 
Pulsing the inner life, 
Enthrills the naked soul 
With sweetest ecstasy. 



25 



t^c (^rm^ of f ^e (Ktaeeee. 



Serried spears of Spring 
From the seed-sheaths drawn. 
Driven to the hilt 
Through the armor white 
Of old Winter wan, 
Till his frozen might 
Melts in fear away. 
How their eager blades, 
Ground to sharpest green, 
Tell the prowess large 
Of their leader fair — 
Gentle amazon, 
Who with leafy shield, 
Azure-helmeted, 
Steps their ranks before — 
Peerless, sweet, serene. 
How her ensigns gay 
Purple, white, and gold, 
Flutter to the sun ; 
By their fragrant folds 
Charming dull routine 
From the emerald march. 
How her aides-de-camp. 
Butterfly and bee. 
Flit upon her will ; 
Galling into line 
Standard-bearers new. 
Bidding tree and shrub 
Bloom in " double quick " ; 
While the courier breeze 
Brings her balmy news 
Of the foe's retreat. 



In the verdant van, 
Sound the feathered fifes 
And the drum-corps loud 
Of the woodpeckers ; 
While a-tween platoons 
Of the plumy troops, 
Many a cricket band 
Shrills, in martial mood. 
'Midst the dewy glooms, 
Spring her tent unfolds 
Wove of dusk and stars. 
Then the firefly glows 
On its zigzag beat — 
Sentry vigilant, — 
And the zephyry scouts 
In their sinuous speed 
Breathe the countersign. 
See the camp-fires gleam 
By the glow-worm lit I 
List the rustling breath 
Of the still brigades. 
Sleeping on their arms I 
Now, as o'er the host 
Gropes the gradual dawn, 
From the picket birds 
Breaks a fusillade 
Of ecstatic notes. 
Music-pellets, hurled 
At the stragglers white, 
Rear-guard of the frost. 
Then, as to the files 
Of saluting spears 
Dipped in glistening dew. 
Bends the royal sun. 
Bugler Lark with joy 
Pipes the signal clear 
For a fresh advance. 



Rank on rank they spread 
Over field and fell, 
Pressing back the white 
From its prey, the brown. 
But the King of Cold 
Calls his cloud allies, 
And with subtle skill, 
Plans an ambuscade 
Of defiant drifts. 
Flaky legions whirl 
On the beryl brave. 
Till outflanked, they fall 
'Neath the sudden charge. 
Now lieutenant May 
Hastens to her chief, 
Bringing rich reserves ; 
Armed with cartridge-pods 
Shotted deep with seed, 
And with pouches brimmed 
By the dust of war. 
Pollen-powder bright. 
At her coming blithe, 
Up the mountain side 
Swift the foe retreats 
To its native peaks ; 
While in victory proud. 
Winged warriors trill 
Paeans unto Spring, 
Clovers flaunt their flags 
Of triumphant red. 
Daisies, gay of heart. 
Wave their pennons pure. 
Sweet Arbutus glows 
Forth in rapture pink. 
And the dandelions 
Sumptuously unfurl 
Oriflammes of gold. 



Now the merry feathered pipers 
Play the joyous Spring-time in, 

Setting myriad feet a-dancing 
With the fervor of their din. 

Robin trills his tripping measure, 
And the lark sings out its soul, 

Soon the blue-jay joins the chorus, 
And the crow with music droll. 

Every leaf and twig is trembling 

With the sweet aerial rune, 
From their buds the eager blossoms 

Hasten forth to hear the tune. 

From its seed-house runs the plantlet. 
Leaping greenly towards the sky ; 

Flowers their petal-wings are spreading, 
Tugging at their roots to fly. 

Thrush and bobolink and cuckoo 
Ripple on the blithe refrain ; 

On their finger-tips the grasses 
Catch the pulses of the strain. 

Springs are bubbling up to listen. 
Running out in rills of glee ; 

Zephyrs waft the seeds of music 
Far and wide o'er hill and lek. 

May hath ope'd her ear to hearken. 
Dancing o'er the vibrant earth ; 

She hath loosed her leafy tresses 
And her step is light with mirth. 



On her head a cloud-cap fleecy, 
Sandals green upon her feet, 

Blossoms bright upon her bosom— 
Who to dance with her is meet ! 

Play, ye merry feathered pipers I 
Fill the air with sweetest din ! 

Pipe your loudest ! pipe your clearest I 
Pipe the dancing Spring-time in ! 



(By kind permission of " The Youth's Companion,") 
30 



Smc, 



^ 



'Tis June once more in field and sky, 
In grass and tree and flower, 

In bee and bird and butterfly, 
In shine and shade and shower. 

The air is soft with lover's sighs 
And sweet with scent and song, 

A thousand tender lullabies 
Drift Slumber's car along. 

'Mid hum and whir and dulcet trill, 
The dreaming Summer lies. 

Awake with every throb and thrill, 
Asleep with half-shut eyes. 

The day delights to dally by 
And drowse in golden light, 

While with her silver-beaming sky 
Loiters the lovely night. 

'Tis June once more within my heart ; 

Through all my life 'tis June, 
And buds of thoughts discordant, part 

To blossom into tune. 



(By perniissio7i of '^ The Youth'' s Co7n f anion,'' } 
31 



$0 f^e &eai^e0. 

Ye leaves ! whose sound so greenly slakes 
The thirsty silence of my thought, 

With what a wealth of fragrant peace 
Your murmurous cadences are fraught I 

The soul of Summer to me speaks 
Through all your modulations sweet ; 

Soothed by your cool and lightsome song, 
The day forgets its heavy heat. 

Unrhythmed music of the trees I 

Breathing of things unseen, unheard ; 

Whispering of a world apart. 

By dissonance and death unstirred. 

Would like a bird that I might build 
Amid your emerald shades my nest, 

And trill away the haunting cares 
That fill my spirit with unrest ! 



(By permission of " The Youth'' s Coftt-^anion.*'} 
32 



$0 a CfoDer (J$fo0eom. 

Red beacon ! shining bright 

For winged mariners 

That sail the sea of air, — 

What set thee thus ablaze ? 

Didst bring these ruddy beams 

With patient zeal, along 

The stairway of thy cells 

In some shut lantern hid. 

Lit by the fire of life 

Whose spark glowed in thy seed ? 

Or did thine eager stem 

Climb to the burning point 

Which comes to pure desire ; 

Up-pressing, till thy toil. 

Impetuous with hope, 

Burst into flame of bloom? 

Then was thy light self-made, 

Lustred from effort high. 

And yet this cannot be. 

For God must have I/'2s part. 

Methinks thy striving reached 

The limit of its power 

And found, as striving must, 

God's answering blossom there. 

Ah, that each human bloom 

Like thee would upward strive, 

And at self's limit find 

The answering help of God ! 



Nuggets of red sunbeam ; 

Mined from ore of green ; 
Dainty, ruby blushes 

From earth's face serene. 

Pyramids of perfume, 

Painted appetite, 
Hunger from the outward 

Crimsoned into sight. 

Into shape projected, 
Reddened into taste, 

Into smell translated 
Or in touch encased. 

Hunger mindward pressing. 
Pushed by void intense 

In the spaces dwelling, 
Making stomach-sense. 

Hearts aglow and burning 
With the sun-blood warm 

Music with red pulses 
In the tune of form. 

Ruddy rhythm, beating 

Color into song; 
Tangled notes of perfume. 

Sweet sonorous throng ! 



JW- 



'Twas hand in hand that star-strewn eve, 

Adown the road we came, 
The hilly road, the winding road, 

That ruts and grasses clainn. 

Tall hedges gloomed on either side, 
But through their darkness green, 

Anon a light, a cottage light, 
Did send its streak of sheen. 

The moon flung wide her silver scarf 

Across the zephyry night. 
We heard the neighboring brooklet laugh 

In pebbly, pure delight. 

Faint waves of martial music broke 

Upon the strand of sense. 
The voice of silence dumbly spoke 

Our happiness intense. 

We echoed back the dreamy mood 

That hung o'er hill and sky. 
Our spirits quaffed the quietude 

With cup of ear and eye. 

Love fanned us with his pinions fleet, 
We heard his bow-string twang, 

And through our hearts his arrow sweet 
Pierced with a pleasant pang. 



^un^(t)|tonei?. 

Glory of gold ! 

Nor bought, nor sold, 
Mined from the veins that lie in the air; 

Coined into beam 

Of yellowest gleam, 
Fresh from the azure mint so fair. 

From stained cloud-ore, 

The golden store 
By mining breezes is released, 

And nugget rays 

All brimmed with blaze, 
Pour from the pockets of the east. 

The bullion bright 

Of sifted light. 
By silent processes unseen. 

Is swiftly cast. 

Moulded and massed 
From yellow into richest green. 

On bush and tree, 

To all so free. 
The leaves are green-backed into view ; 

Pledges are they 

Made unto May, 
Ever redeemed in the sun's own hue. 

In lawns and lanes 

The golden grains, 
In many a petal purse are stored. 

While pouch of pod 

And safe of sod. 
Rich legacies for summer hoard. 

36 



From beryl banks, 

In swelling ranks 
The gold is drawn by seed and scion 

'Tis wisely lent 

At sweet per cent 
To buttercup and dandelion. 

Now backward swing 

The doors of Spring — 
Wide sesame to all the year ; 

Old Winter halts, 

Her treasure-vaults 
Beholding with an envious fear. 

In bulb and root. 

Beyond compute 
Her wondrous Eldorado lies ; 

'Neath spade and plough. 

In blade and bough, 
He sees her garnered riches rise. 

His form, cold-white 

Shrinks at the sight, 
Her beauties fast his being burn ; 

On grassy pyre 

Of emerald fire, 
His flaky locks to daisies turn. 

Sun-money large. 

From marge to marge 
Of glowing sky, profusely strewn — 

Great capital 

Reserved for all. 
Yet e'er in circulation's noon. 

No miser's hand 
Nor corporate band, 
The largess of its light restrains : 



No robber's scheme 
Nor idler's dream, 
For greed, its affluent amber gains. 

To caste and creed 

It pays no heed. 
But yields its currency of shine 

To want and wealth. 

To pain and health — 
Bright lesson of the law divine. 



Alone with the whispering trees. 
With the song of the leaves 
Which the gay zephyr weaves 
Through the undulant boughs 
That his greetings arouse, 
With the rush and the gush 
Of the leaves. 

Alone with my whispering thoughts. 
With the song that they sing 
As they race in a ring 
Round the circuit of mind 
Some outlet to find, 
With the whirl and the swirl 
And the twist and the curl 
Of my thoughts. 

Alone with the plash of the oar. 
As the boat gayly glides 
Through the spray-tossing tides 
That so silently gleam 
In the moon's yellow beam. 
With the dip and the slip 
And the musical drip 
Of the oars. 

Alone with the throb of my heart. 
With the hope and the dream 
That sail its red stream 
A harbor to gain 
In the welcoming brain, 
With the beat and the heat 
And the musings so sweet 
Of my heart. 

(By kind courtesy of " The Youth's CompanioM,"} 



A mighty bell is the sky so blue ! 
And now by the fingered lightning swung, 
With roll and boom its thunder tongue 
Goes throbbing all the spaces through ; 

Ringing the earth up into tune, 
Ringing the rain from cloud to cloud, 
Ringing the hour when blossoms crowd, 
Ringing the jubilee of June ; 

Tolling far up in its airy throat 
Peeans in praise of summer's queen. 
Tolling from out the sod, the green, 
Thrilling the ground with its triumph note. 

Ring, great bell, from the heights of space 1 
Calling the seeds with voice sublime. 
Pushing the trees to leafy prime. 
Bursting the buds with thy heavy bass. 

A redder scent in the wild rose, ring, 
Into the pink a dainti r hue. 
Into the lake a deeper blue. 
Gayer tints in the butterfly's wing. 

Reflected in its dulcet hum 
Thy welcome chime the bee has caught, 
While many a bird of thee well taught 
Is thrilling the news that June has come. 

The surf its tribute-laces brings 
To the silvery shining feet of June ; 
And the sea replies to thy rumbling rune 
In the surge of song it hoarsely sings 

40 



Thy guttural glee, dull labor heeds, 
And soon from desk to hammock turns ; 
While all the din-hurt highway yearns 
Some path to be o'er dewy meads. 

Ring, great bass 1 while the tenor rain 
Runs to earth with pattering feet 
The mighty message to repeat, 
Drop by drop, to valley and plain. 

Thy chant it sings in softer tone, 
Telling the floweret's petalled ear 
The tidings sweet — that June is here, 
Eager to mount her emerald throne. 

Ring the rainbow into the heart, 
Making it glow with hopes as fair ; 
Ring the rifts from the clouds of care. 
Showing that pain hath a brighter part. 

Bell of the sky, swinging above ! 
Swinging the silence into sound, 
Tell us what clangor more profound, 
Shall ring the June of human love. 

That June where vice and virtue rhyme. 
And life's uneven metre feels 
The smoothing pulse of music-peals, 
Pealing the world's redemption chime. 



Zo a (Rose. 

Dear flower 
On my lapel, 
I pray you tell 
In soft and fragrant speech 
Of her my soul would reach. 
Your petals are her parted lips 
Whence unto me her sweet breath slips. 
The glow upon her cheek was caught by you, 
Her thought is in your form so fresh and new, 
Rose of my own fair Rose, cradle of Cupid swung 
Upon this heaving breast where her fond arms have clung. 
What lavish memories at your bidding start! 
June on my coat makes June within my heart. 
As I behold your dewy red, 
Through you our spirits seem to wed ; 
Your luscious hue and scent 
Are for our nuptials lent. 
Badge of my bliss, 
I joy in this 
Sweet Hour. 



Rummer* ^ong. 

Listen, my soul, to the sv/eet song of summer, 
Rippled and cadenced from wing, wood, and wave, 

Rhythmed so finely, 

Chorused divinely, 
Sunbeamed and moonbeamed, stave upon stave. 

Hark I it comes pulsing from leaf, twig, and petal, 
Tossing and sliding from spray, surf, and crest. 

Humming and shrilling 

And daintily trilling. 
For music is now at its sweetest and best. 

Many a nook holds a tiny musician 
Tuning its treble or buzzing its bass ; 

Each in its labor 

Spurring its neighbor. 
Vying to win in the resonant race. 

Full is the chorus, but what is its burden ? 
Why is the summer so blithe in her song? 

'Tis her rejoicing 

The music is voicing — 
Sense of her freedom the joy-notes prolong. 

Tune hath now burst from the bondage of discord, 
Silence leaps up into fountains of sound. 

Rest wakes to motion, — 

Thrilled with devotion, 
Earth unto God offers praises profound. 



Blown by the breath divine, 
The sun-flag, purple-fringed, 
With bars of crimson stained, 
Its glory-folds unfurled. 
Far o'er day's turrets blue. 
The mighty banner swung 
Its weight of majesty, 
Till night with haggard eyes 
Vanished in ragged haste ; 
And all the universe 
Was thrilled with ecstasy. 
Beneath that ensign bright, 
Green-breasted earth awoke ; 
So raptured by the sight 
Her joy took wing and sang 
A thousand melodies 
That blent in chorus sweet ; 
And field and garden waved 
In salutation glad 
Their floral pennons fair, 
From whose delicious folds 
The playful zephyr sprites 
Soft-scented music drew. 
The brook-tune blithely broke 
Its rippling strains of light 
Adown the golden morn. 
Over the verdant sea 
Of glistening meadow-dew, 
Bee-piloted, among 
The happy isles of shade 
Where dwelt the dreamy kine, 
V/andered white fleets of sheep 



Whose wake of silvery sound 
Tinkled through emerald waves 
That sporting, tossed anon 
Their spray of butterflies ; 
While deep 'mid bladed dells 
The merman-locust sang. 
The wood — cool-corridored, 
Librarian of earth, 
Thick-memoried with the past, 
Breathing of eldest time — 
Unto the beauty bent 
Its green-plumed reverence ; 
As if it ne'er had glimpsed 
Centuries of scenes as fair. 
Nature ! ever new ! 
Perpetual youth of God ! 
When may we learn to poise 
The gain and loss of life, 
And deathless live like thee ? 



(By kind permission of " The Youth's Companion.** ) 
45 



(Retjerie. 



With silver tanglement of stars 
The dark climbs up the sky, 

Its round moon-banner, fair and bright, 
Unfurling from on high. 

Now o'er the purple plains of air 

Those folds of glory glide, 
Till nooks of night give up their gloom, 

And glows the welkin wide. 

From stain of darkness purified, 

The earth resplendent lies ; 
While in that beauty's saving grace 

The tides in worship rise. 

So, 'mid a tanglement of thoughts. 

The sky of mind we climb, 
The pure soul-banner to unfold 

From spiritual heights sublime. 

Now, o'er the sorrow-darkened world, 

Unfurl our light divine, 
Till nooks of life give up their grief, 

And sin's dark places shine. 



46 



t^e (j$eff::(5$uo^. 



Beacon of sound ! 

Light for the ear ! 
Tolling of danger from year to year ; 

Pushing the keel 

With vibrant touch 
Far from the sunk reef's ragged clutch r 

Telling the helm 

In moon or sun 
Whither the channel waters run ; 

Giving the fog 

So dumb, a voice, 
Bidding the seaman's heart rejoice; 

Tolling of wreck 

That must not be, 
Soothing the riotous surge of the sea, 

Music above 

The waves' wild will 
Solemnly pealing, " Peace — be still." 

Bell of the sea! 

Bell of the seal 
Swinging in Neptune's turret so free ; 

Over the shades, 

The shifting hues. 
Of endless greens and foamy blues; 

Over the plash, 
The roar, the sweep. 
Sending thy salt notes strong and deep — 
Lonely as thou 

47 



Our lives are cast. 
Ringing upon life's sea so vast. 

Like unto thee, 

Our brain-bells toll 
Omens of peril to the soul. 

Wide and far 

Our thought-notes go 
Over the billows of joy and woe, 

Over the shades, 

The shifting sway 
Of endless moods in grave or gay ; 

Sounding through storms 

Of love and hate, 
Sounding in hours of watch and wait ; 

Each in its place, 

Ringing alone. 
The self-same tune with changeless tone 

Keeping time 

Like thee with the tide, 
That soul-ships may in safety glide. 



ger (poice. 



I've heard the bells at even-tide 

Their sweetness to the dusk confide 

With silvery, lingering tenderness, 

That did a wealth of love express ; 

While echo's answering caress. 

With equal sweetness underlaid. 

Came gliding through the shadowy glade. 

Where in melodious musing mood. 

Companioned by the solitude, 

My spirit-being oft hath stood. 

I've heard the sweetest note of bird 
By soft affection's motive stirred, 
Steal through the slumb'rous, starry air 
Amongst the dew and perfume rare, 
Across the yellow moonlight fair, 
Atween the lisping leaves to where 
Some drowsy mate within its nest, 
Feeling itself by love addressed. 
With dulcet syllable replies 
And quickly to its lover flies. 

I've heard the pensive plash of wave; 
The cricket chant his soothing stave ; 
The rain its melody engrave 
In dimples on the silent pool ; 
The zephyr sing with accents cool, 
By undiscovered rhythmic rule, 
Unto the parching grass and flowers, 
Unto the listless heated hours ; 
The leaf, the breeze, the brook, the bee, 
Unite in richest harmony,— 



But all the sweetness I have heard 
From Nature's music ne'er has stirred 
My inmost being to rejoice 
As hath the sweetness of her voice. 



©ea^ ^unfig^t 



Not a leaf so greenly waving 
But is tomb for some poor sunbeam. 
All its life, once shiny golden, 
In that fluttering form lies buried. 
Lost to light and dulled to freedom, 
In the green the yellow slumbers. — 
Nay the leaf itself is sunbeam, 
Sunbeam moulded to a solid. 
Every cell and vein and fibre 
Is the light wove into substance ; 
Golden ether greened in passing 
Into palpable expression ; 
Crowded into firmer tissue. 
Hath the beam no final waking, 
No release from leafy prison ? 
Yea! for when the leaf is fading. 
When again appears the yellow, 
Like a spirit from its body 
Softly glides the self-same sunbeam 
Caught amid the emerald meshes. 



( By permission q/ " The Youth's Companion."} 
51 



Not a face so sweetly smiling 
But is tomb for some poor soul-beam ; 
All its life once linked with spirit 
Now in depths of flesh lies buried ; 
Lost to light and dulled to freedom, 
Soul, alas ! in body slumbers. — 
Nay the very flesh is soul-light, 
Soul-light moulded to a solid. 
Every cell and vein and muscle 
Is the light wove into substance ; 
Fire of spirit, fleshed in passing 
Into tangible expression — 
Earthened by some great transgression. 
Is there then no final waking, 
From the body no redemption ? 
Yea! for soul, through aspiration. 
Of its tomb may make a palace. 
Flesh is but our downward thinking, 
Hope and faith and love redeem us, 
Changing substance into spirit 
Till the twain in one are blended. 



(By permission of " The Yotith's Companion") 
52 



With noise 

Of shoot and shout, 

The merry rout 

In South lands, or in North 

Gives greeting to the Fourth ! 

No civic feuds of long ago 

These Liliputian patriots know, 

For them no war of color, class or creed; 

One flag they love, one common impulse heed. 

Impartial powder burns the same, for white and black ; 

Both hold July's red fingers till they smoke and crack ; 

Torpedoes have no bias in their snaps ; 

One sulphurous glory all the children wraps. 

Such union for their sires were vain 

While pride and prejudice remain. 

Then hail to happy youth, 

So free, so near to truth ! 

Long hath it stood, 

This brotherhood 

Of boys. 



^unfieam anb (gloonfieam. 

In my yester life a maid I knew, 
Whose soul was flashed with sunbeam ; 
"What shafts of mirth from her bow of a mouth 
Were shot by the merry archer I 

What sudden javelins of jest 

She threw in her mischievous glances I 

The mimic warfare of her fun 

No quarter gave, and asked none. 

The sunbeams overflowed her heart 
And rippled through her tresses. 
Invading hand and foot and tongue, 
Cascading through her laughter. 

But now her sun of joy is set 
Her soul is sad with twilight, 
And in her firmament of mind 
The stars of thought are glowing. 

The moonbeam o'er her nature glides, 
Its girlish angles smoothing, 
The moonbeam silvers all her voice 
And in her step it lingers. 

It slumbers in her wistful eyes 
Soft-sifted through their lashes, 
It shines about her crescent lips 
In smiles of tender sadness. 

Ah, would I knew the maiden now 
Suffused with moods of moonlight. 
I loved the sunbeam in her soul, 
Would I might love the moonbeam. 



fyui in f^e (ttig^t 

O silver-purple night, 
Thick-wove from dusk to dawn 
With star-strung threads of dark I 
Receive my panting soul 
And slake its eager thirst 
With draughts of silence pure 1 
Fed through sonorous day 
On diet large of sound, 
It craves such nectar sweet. 
Upon your azure airs 
It yearns to be adrift 
And feel the throb of things 
Beat up and down the sky ; 
To rock in riot sweet 
With pulses of perfume 
Rippled from heart of flower ; 
To bend with balmy boughs 
And tuneful tilt of leaves, 
Or eddy with the breeze 
In sudden dash and dip; 
Chasing the stillness on 
From brooding vale to vale. 
Wooing with whimsic will 
Soft hushes of the gloom ; 
To flutter with the wings 
That flit the dewy deeps, 
Or float with yon pale cloud — 
Dream-mist that hovers o'er 
The cradle-tips of moon — 
So yearns my stiffened soul. 
Dwarfed to its cell of flesh, 
Rigid from long restraint. 



Denied these motions free 
Whose moods, voluptuous, might, 
If unto it transferred. 
Some supple sense unfold 
Moulded to mate the truths 
Hid from our common sight. 



t^c ®eaf of ^utntnet. 

Autumn's lance hath wounded Summer, 
^ Piercing through her shield of green, 
Till the leafy blood-drops trickle 
All her armor-joints between. 

On a bier of soft, brown mosses, 
See, the bleeding Summer lies! 

Gently breathing back the beauty 
Drawn from dew and sunny skies. 

Hark ! the pines with busy needles 
Sew a 2hroud above the dead, 

And the cones the breezes gather 
For a tablet at the head ; 

Singing dirges for the glory 

Swiftly fading into dust. 
Mourning o'er the ruthless rigor, 

O'er the law of nature's must. 

Autumn stands above the conquered, 

In her russet sandals shod, 
Sad, remorseful, proudly leaning 

On her lance of golden-rod. 

Musing on her fallen sister. 
Musing how they quarrelled so 

As to which in truth was fairer 
And the stronger to o'erthrow. 

Now she weeps, and all her tear-drops 
With the soil are quickly wed, 

Soon to spring in fragrant clusters 
Of the checkerberry red. 



t^c £anb of ^ifence. 



Oh, for a land of silence ! 

Where sound is ever dumb, 
And all the notes of music 

Like spirit pulses come ; 

Where song is but an echo 
From out the spaces caught. 

By loom of fancy woven 
From feeling into thought ; 

Where tongues forget to utter 
The whisp'rings of the mind. 

And speech by lips unspoken 
Is by the eyes divined ; 

A land of hue and fragrance 

Afar from gong and bell, 
Where sound is all transmuted, 

Perceived through sight and smell. 

Redeemed from crude expression, 
Withdrawn from outward sign. 

Known only as a motion, 
Felt through a sense divine ; 

Caught up to heights of color, 
Revealed in state of bloom, 

Tuned into touch with spirit. 
Breathed in a rare perfume ; 

Hidden in painted music, 

Lost in the frozen brook. 
Heard in the opening petal. 

Voiced in the print of book. 

S8 



The noise of falling star-beam, 

Of fading sunset hue, 
The impact of a shadow, 

The glisten of the dew ; 

The bird-note heard in impulse 
Ere from the bill it slips. 

The plash of oar suggested 
Ere in the wave it dips ; 

The leaf in act of lisping, 
The wing about to hum, 

The storm-god's arm uplifted 
To beat his thunder-drum ; 

The something \Qi\. to muse on, 

A tale not wholly told, 
A riddle of the ages 

For spirit to unfold ; 

The ghost of sounds that might be 

But never can be free, 
Wearing the chain of silence, 

Stilled by its stern decree ; 

Freer because of silence. 
In fetters, yet unbound. 

Denied the zone of matter, 

Sound held aloof from sound ; — 

Such is the realm I sigh for. 
With hints of earth-land rife, 

Or say this rudo existence 
Hints at that higher life ; 

For sound is but the shadow 
By rays of silence shed, 

And though our souls be lighted 
Our feet in darkness tread. 



O silent land, and holy ! 

Where is your kingdom fair? 
Amid the pores of ocean, 

Within the cells of air? 

Where ears forget to listen, 
And where sensations fail 

To pierce with vibrant lances 
The hardened, fleshly veil ? 

Where nerves refuse to thicken 
The thought-films into speech, 

Or thin the outward musics 
The inward sense to reach ? 

Far in the deeps of feeling. 
High on the steeps of mind ? 

In dream? in death? Oh, tell me, 
Where I your land may find. 



(§rtxiumn ^inttti* 

.^ 

I. 

The roadway winds 'tween swaying rows of green and gold, 

Whose boughs in friendship's arch entwined, display 

The throne of Autumn, whence anon 

Mute leaf- canaries fly 

In fluttering flocks. 

I lean 

On mossy rocks 

And view the pumpkins nigh. 

That lie like golden nuggets on 

The ground, well-guarded by a proud array 

Of podded poles and corn-stalks, 'gainst the staring wold. 

II. 

Its yellow, yearning leaves to curl, the grape vine tries; 

And now, I see alighting on its trellis-top, 

A plump, red-breasted music sprite, 

Who looks with lonesome air 

Upon the view 

Serene ; 

His comrades flew 

Ere he perchance was 'ware 

To greet the South ; now in his flight 

He sees a leaflet from its kindred drop, 

And winging where it fell he chirps to sympathize. 



(^ Qgunc? of <Bra:pe0» 

Tune with purple pulses 
Pitched in key of light, 

Clustered notes of fragrance, 
Music heard through sight I 

Cone of purple sunbeams 

Nested in the vine, 
Filled with joy of juices — 

Light wove into wine ! 

Life through matter moulded 

Into roundest shape ; 
Thought in globed expression, 

Soul in form of grape 1 

Family of planets, 

Orbed from seed and bloom. 
Stamped with spheral birthmark 

From creation's womb 1 

With a mighty meaning 

Every globule swells, 
For in form's deep language 

God His purpose tells. 



62 



3n a Sctcfori?. 

The air goes round 

With rims of sound, 

Off-thrown from many a busy wheel ; 

In curve and sphere 

I seem to hear, 

In circling grooves I think and feel. 

My fancy curls, 

My reason whirls, 

My sense of straight hath lost its sway ; 

A wheel am I 

And round I fly 

The outward impulse to obey. 

What fragrance fine 

Of oak and pine 

Comes rolling from the screaming saw ! 

What buzz and boom 

Thrill through the room 

And startle with a sudden awe ! 

Each swift machine 

With mighty spleen 

Tears from the wood its soul of scent ; 

While at the shock 

Bodies of block 

Turn into dust with loud lament. 

Anon there slips 

A rain of chips 

From churring lathe or sliding log ; 

And 'midst the roar 

Of cut and bore 

The workmen shout as in a fog. 

63 



From rift to rift 

Their voices drift 

Across the strange sonorous mist, 

Whose pulses throng 

My nerves along 

Like influence from a hypnotist. 

My ear it charms, 

My tongue it calms, 

Its motion stills my power to think; 

'Neath its control 

My drowsy soul 

Must soon slip o'er oblivion's brink. 

But with a swirl 

A shaving's curl 

Upon my ample beard is caught ; 

The spell it breaks, 

My spirit wakes 

To belt anew the wheels of thought. 



^ifence. 

.^ 

Have you ever stood 

In the Autumn wood, 
Alone with its crimson, gold, and umber, 

When all was still 

With a nameless thrill, 
And the breeze was wrapt in fragrant slumber? 

When naught befell 

To break the spell 
Save the snap of a leaf grown ripe for falling, 

Or the hubbub harsh 

From a far-off marsh, 
Or din of crows in the distance calling ? 

Did you ever bide 

At the turn of the tide. 
When from the ebb with eager wooing, 

In sudden swirl 

The waves did curl, 
Unto the strand their vows renewing — 

As if the deep 

Awoke from its sleep 
With a startled sense of its lonely being. 

And surged through the kelp 

With a cry for help 
From the fear in its mighty bosom fleeing ? 

Did you ever kneel 

With a dumb appeal 
By the shrouded bier when the flowers were springing, 

And hear in your soul 

The death-bell toll 
Your loved one's curfew, ruthlessly ringing? 

65 



When you and your doubt 

Seemed all shut out 
From the beauties of color and song around you, 

And soothing words, 

And cooing birds, 
Seemed links in the chain of grief that bound you ? 

Did you ever move 

In the world-worn groove 
Of streets with hoof and wheel sonorous, 

Unseen, unknown, 

No welcoming tone 
Sounding for you in the clamorous chorus; 

'Mong sleek and slim, 

'Midst the vender's vim. 
And the tongues of trade in ceaseless babble ; 

One of the throng, 

Yet thrust along 
Alone, apart from the roar and rabble? 

Then unto you 

0, one of the few, 
To know what silence is, 'tis given — 

That hallowed hush, 

Amid the crush 
Of things by fate so rudely driven. 

Your soul imbued 

With solitude, 
The dross of daily living loses, 

'Till buoyant, free 

The truth to see, 
The paths of peace it gladly chooses. 



t^c Site of f ^e feeevtjee. 

With her torch of golden-rod 

Autumn sets the woods a-burning. 

All the green of tree and sod 
Into blaze of beauty turning. 

See the flames of every hue 

Dov/n the emerald arches sweeping, 
Avalanching on the view 

Like a rainbow tempest leaping. 

How the leaf-sparks redly fly 
'Midst the rustling conflagration, 

Smoulder into brown and die 
Out of shape and animation. 

Through the furnace' crimson glow 
Screams the jay so bluely winging, 

While his answer harsh, the crow 
From the topmost pine is flinging. 

Creaks the wain, and barks the dog, 
Rings the teamster's whoa emphatic, 

Thuds the tune of axe and log, 

Breaks some childish shout ecstatic : 

As the tinted tide of heat 

Bubbles redly from the mosses 

Into checkerberry sweet, 
Or in spray of thistle tosses. 

Hark ! the seething of the leaves ! 

Each a fiery pennon waving ; 
While the eager forest weaves 

To and fro with color-craving. 

67 



Take the cadence from the streamlet, 

Part the robin and its strain, 
Rob the leaflets of their rustle 

And the breeze from its refrain, — 
Where then is music ? 

Take the chiming from the steeple, 
Take the tinkle from the sheep, 

From the bee remove the buzzing, 

From the chick the peep, peep, peep,— 
Where then is music ? 

From the organ take its pealing. 
From the drum its hollow thump, 

From the cannon take its booming, 
Take the blare from fife and trump, — 
Where then is music ? 

From the voice take modulation, 
From the ear the sense of tune, 

From the mother's lips the love-phrase. 
From the baby mouth the croon, — 
Where then is music ? 



Now through the purple pores of night 
My love to thee is stealing, 

It touches out the way aright, 
Its sight is in its feeling. 

Along the tunnels of the air 

By lamps of ether lighted, 
It swiftly glides, anew to share 

The vows between us plighted. 

It pauses not for walls that rear 

Their arrogant resistance. 
It heeds not the surprise and fear 

Of thwarted time and distance ; 

To matter gives no countersign, 

To earth no tie confesses ; 
But filled with potency divine, 

At once, through all, it presses. 

'Tis here with me, 'tis there with thee, 
It flames between our faces — 

Soul-lightning, fetterless, and free. 
It leaps across the spaces. 

So through the azure cells of night. 

My love a path is burning. 
And quickened by its warming light, 

Thy thought to mine is turning. 



$0 an ^utumn &eaf . 



Red tongue 'tween the cheeks of October, 

Telling of thoughts sublime 
Uttered in tones of color, 

Cadenced in rustly rhyme ; 

Thoughts that the summer has whispered 

Unto each fibre and cell, 
Moulded to cone and acorn, 

Shaped into kernel and shell ; 

Thoughts to the breezes confided, 
Breathed from the hemlock and pine, 

Formed into fragrance and sifted 
Through meshes of shadow and shine ; 

Telling of woodland music. 

The locust's needle-like lay, 
The crow's jet-painted clamor 

And the blue note of the jay ; 

Chorus of hound and hunter, 

The sudden echoing gun. 
And the answering shriek of the engine 

Upon its distant run. 

But more than all these beauties, 

Telling a deeper thought — 
How with the autumn glory 

A mighty truth is fraught. 

How the great soul of the forest 

In sheaths of color fine, 
From every leaf is passing 

To join the soul divine. 

(By permission of " The Youth's Companion") 



J^e Coming of Winfer. 
.^ 

With drifting step old Winter comes apace, 

His chin thick-hung with beard of icicles 

Above his snowy breast. 

Upon his staff, the tree-trunk brown, he leans, 

His flaky locks in white confusion tost, 

His breath sharp-drawn and chill. 

From town to town, from field to field he goes, 

Shedding anon his silver-curling hair 

To warm the frosty sod. 

How, at his soft and crystal-sandalled tread, 

The sleigh-bell chorus tinkles glad salute. 

And Frolic runs to see ! 

Not so the brooklet ; for with sudden dread 

It hugs its timid tune its banks between, 

And gives to Winter's ear 

Naught but the icy skeleton of song — 

The rhythmic pulses of its cadence sweet 

Detained in frozen sound. 

Not less afraid, the feathered musics fly, 

Leaving their trills upon the air to freeze 

Till May the notes revive. 

The flowers, — those birds who ne'er from earth escape 

To flaunt their petal wings aloft, whose claws 

Deep-rooted, hold them fast — 

Have moulted long ago their plumage gay ; 

Their fragrant voices, locked in Summer's heart. 

Await her kind return. 

Lapped in Lethean rest, the bat and bear 
In Nature's mother-love have put their trust» 
Sure of her waking call ; 



Dreaming perchance of some nocturnal deed 

Of airy flight at eve, of cavern cool, 

Or honey-filled retreat. 

Haply, our human life, in truth, is sleep ; 

And things that seem awake, in slumber's boat 

Drift o'er the sea of dreams. 

Would, like the brute, our souls might ever trust 

The tender love of God that o'er us broods, 

Sure of His call at last. 

Pace on, thou hoary patriarch and friend 1 

Thy cloak of ermine doff, and wrap the hills 

Within its warming folds ; 

O'er bulb and root, thy palms white-hot extend, 

Flake-fingered, thickly charged with burning sleet, 

With crystalled sunbeam fraught. 

For, lo ! each fluttering fibre of thy form. 

Each frozen drop of cloud-dew, blent with thee, 

Is tinctured with the sun. 

Thy garb, though white, is marrowed through with gold, 

And with thy cold the threads of heat are wove 

In shining web unseen. 

Earth knows thy purpose well, and warms her seeds 

Where'er thy footsteps shed their snowy heat, 

Or fall thy fleecy sparks. 

Tried by thy frozen fire and purified, 

Anew shall she be born, brighter in hue, 

Sweeter in scent and song. 

As moved the prophets three 'mid furnace heats, 

So thou, amid thy conflagrations white. 

Unscathed dost wend thy way. 

And when thy head of cloud is shorn of strength, 
Like that of Agonistes, famed of old, 
And fall thy locks no more ; 



When midst the snow-drop and the crocus gay, 
Thy tattered ermine lies ; then lay thee down 
To thy well-earned repose. 

On Spring's green pyre of blade and leaf dissolve, 
Till sun in snow and sun in verdure blend, 
And heat with heat unite. 



Peace and passion, passion and peace — 
When will your tilt, alternate, cease ? 
Up with the one and down with the other, 
Shifting about from smooth to smother ; 
Here with the tempest, there with the calm, 
Now with the bruises, then with the balm ; 
First with pallor, next with flush, 
Moments of tumult, moments of hush ; — 
Ever the restless spirit ranges 
Round the ring of endless changes ; 
Till at last the touch of death 
Breaks the circuit of the breath. 
Stops the race of thought and feeling 
Pulses from the nerve-wire stealing. 
Yet the current floweth ever, 
For its force is broken never. 
What then is the final end ? 
Must the struggle still extend? 
Is it fever, is it frost, 
Peace ne'er won, nor passion lost 
Through the far eternity ? 
Come I this riddle solve for me. 



(gi^^fe of t^e ^notw^SMes. 

Seeds of heat that whitely burrow- 
In each brown and frosty furrow, 
Twirled and tangled, sifted, slanted, 
By the eager breezes planted — 
Spring in you her wealth is keeping, 
In your white her green is sleeping. 
In your frozen friendship, hearted, 
All her blossoms sweet are started ; 
And each flake that earthward settles 
Is a nest for future petals. 
Sunbeams into crystal moulded. 
Fire in snow by Winter folded, 
June entombed in January — 
Paradox that cannot vary. 
Who shall find the end or middle 
Of this wondrous snow-flake riddle? 



(By kind pennission of " T/ie Youth's Contpanion.'^ ) 
75 



s 

Falling lightly, 

Falling whitely 
Fronn the upper to the nether, 
Now apart and nov/ together, 

Turning, trailing. 

Sinking, sailing, 
Hide and seek with zephyr playing, 
Then the call of earth obeying ; 

Slow and agile, 

Fibered, fragile ; 
Cotton from the fields of vapor, 
Snow-wool tossed in whirl and caper ; 

Picked and folded. 

Carded, moulded ; 
By the wind-loom woven swiftly 
Into snow-lace soft and drifty, 

Curling, twisting 

Swirling, misting, 
Scarf and mantle spun and fashioned 
By the storm-wheel's power impassioned ; 

Clinging, winding 

Stinging, blinding ; 
Trunk and twig soon thickly flaking. 
Sash and ribbon for them making ; 

Pillar, picket, 

Wall and wicket 
Decking with a quaint designing 
For the shivering vine entwining 

Vesture pearly 

Looped and curly ; — 
Snow-threads we, that downward travel, 
That from skeins of cloud unravel ; 



Oft capricious, 

Gentle, vicious, 
We the happy snow-cloth makers, 
Carpeting Earth's barren acres, 

Turn our duties 

Into beauties, 
Turn our tumult's wildest rushes 
Into flashing, crystal hushes, 

While all color 

Darker, duller, 
And all things now lost to brightness, 
Find salvation in our whiteness. 



(By kind courtesy of " The Youth's Companion." J 



Her touch is like the flutter 
Of a rose-leaf on my cheek. 

So timorous and tender, 
So maiden-coy and meek. 

Her touch is like the falling 
Of a sunbeam on my heart, 

So warm and bright with impulse, 
So full of dance and dart. 

Her touch is like the ripple 
Of the breeze upon my brow, 

So lingering and lulling 
And breathing of the now. 

Her touch is like the starbeam 
That shivers down the night, 

And chills where'er it falleth 
With cold and frosty light. 

Her touch is like the falling 
Of fairy flakes of snow, 

So innocent yet heedless 
Of freezing all below. 

Her touch with love is sweetened 
Or soured with sudden hate, 

Within her palm's pink hollow 
There sits her lover's fate. 



78 



(Reuet0t6fe ^oem. 

The dark's in the light, 
The hush in the sound 

In the tumult of motion 
Rest slumbers profound. 

The sweet's in the sour, 
The small's in the great, 

The will's in the meshes 
Of merciless fate. 

The light's in the dark, 
The sound's in the hush ; 

In the heart of repose 
Is motion's loud rush. 

The sour's in the sweet. 

The great's in the small ; 
And fate ever answers 

The will's lightest call. 

The first's in the last. 
The soon's in the late ; 

Destroy hath its cold 
In the heat of create. 

The smile's in the tear, 
The joy's in the pain, 

The drought waiteth couchant 
In each drop of rain. 

The last's in the first, 
The late's in the soon, 

From the dry lips of drought 
Rain learns its sweet tune. 



The tear's in the smile, 
The pain's in the joy, 

Create hath its stars 
In the night of destroy. 



6a0f anb O5?e0f^ 



The East called to the West, 
"Where is your place of rest ? 
Lo ! when I give you chase 
Around the ring of space, 
My grasp you still elude— 
Phantom of distance, shrewd I 
Is there no common ground 
In all this weary round 
Where we may hold our tryst 
And twain as one exist ? 
How from dawn's purple height 
My fancy sends its sight 
O'er the gold bridge of day 
To your red plume so gay ; 
Rising to greet the ken 
Of earth's most under men, 
Falling, alas, to me ! 
And ah I how enviously, 
Pursuing sight, my touch 
Hobbles on Time's slow crutch 
To feel your crimson heart 
Ebb out the words, ' We part ' — 
Ere the thick doors of night 
Forbid such pure delight ! 
In vain, too late I come — 
Your voice to me is dumb. 
Vanished your beckoning plume, 
Sullen the gates of gloom ; 
Where rested you, I rest — 
But west no more is west. 
Still with a lover's hope 
Upon my quest I grope, 



Trusting there is an end 
That shall our fragments mend- 
A point, a timeless place 
Shut from the maw of space, 
Where east in west shall cease, 
And west with east have peace.' 



to (^t fe<5t)e (^cro00 t^e ^not». 



Over the white, under the blue, 
I'm calling, love, to you, to youl 
Through purple corridors of night 
Echoes the note of my delight. 
Distance ! 'tis but the ether wall 
That unto you transmits my call. 
Space lends her ear of crescent moon 
To hear my heart beat out its tune. 
Then runs to you with vibrant feet, 
The tender cadence to repeat ; 
Nor frosty air nor chill of snow 
Retards that music's subtle flow. 
Let tinkling tongues of pleasure tell 
Their rhapsody from bell to bell. 
Their dulcet din ne'er shuts from you 
My voice between the white and blue ; 
Into the pores of air I speak. 
My sigh is wafted to your cheek ; 
The kiss I press upon your lips 
To you upon a moonbeam slips. 
What need for nearer touch of flesh, 
When through the coarse aerial mesh 
Our spirits pure so freely range. 
Love's tokens sweet to interchange? 



'Tis he ! 

With toe a-tip 

And laugh on lip, 

With large, inquiring eyes 

And shout of glad surprise! 

The wild, white music of the snow, 

Beating its rhythms to and fro. 

The red tune snapping from the eager log, 

The shadows, nestling soft in niche and jog — 

He heeds them not, for all his soul is wide to see 

The gifts that cluster there around the festal tree. 

Wrapt in the moment of his pure delight, 

He knows not past nor future, morn nor night ; 

Asleep, awake, in heart and brain — 

His pleasure strung to pitch of pain — 

Yet neither. Ah, how blest 

To find such point of rest, 

At God's own poise 

Of griefs and joys 

To be! 



84 



,^ 

Wrinkled brow and dimpled chin 
Sat amid the Christmas din, 
Eager, each, v/ith glowing heart, 
Gift and gladness to impart. 
One looked down from height of years 
On the scene, through mist of tears ; 
One looked up from childhood's plane, 
All untried in heart and brain. 



Age in memory's fetters fast 
Saw a yuletide of the past, 
When Hope's sun high on its course 
Knew no shadow of remorse. 
And when Death's horizon lay 
Wrapt in cloudland far away. 
Youth in expectation's charm. 
Tossing toys from palm to palm, 
'Saw naught in the world amiss, 
Felt no limit of his bliss. 



Age looked through the book of yore- 
Every page was wrinkled o'er. 
Blotted oft, and thumbed with care, 
Showing only here and there 
Tender joys, like rose leaves pressed. 
Breathing still their fragrance blest. 
Youth with eye and ear attune. 
Only knew December — June — 
This with all its frosty fun, 
That with scent and song and sun. 

8s 



Dimpled chin and wrinkled brow, 
Blending in the happy now — 
Ah, how strange the man should gain 
Happiness through gates of pain 
And the bright, unthinking boy- 
Find his woe through doors of joy. 



O morn ! that breaks in golden gleams 

Over the eastern rim of night, 
Kissing the flowerets from their dreams 

Till from their petal lips so bright 
The spirit of each blossom fair, 

Enwrapped in perfume, softly steals 
To sweeten all the amber air 

And hover o'er the dewy fields, — 

Immortal morn ! whose glorious beams 

Break o'er the sombre ■^'•erge of death 
Waking the soul from earthly dreams 

Till from the lips, that vital breath. 
That chord of unheard music floats 

To swell the sweet, ethereal strain 
And add another stave of notes 

From life's great scale of joy and pain, — 

O night 1 that creeps with silvery feet 

Over the far funereal gray. 
Breathing a requiem flowery sweet 

Through all the twiUght tomb of day, — 
O death I whose dread indelible stain 

Blots out the spirit's golden shine, 
Dark'ning our whitest joy with pain. 

Hiding the page of life divine, — 

The mystery that fills ye all, 

Our reverent search must e'er invite ; 
But though your names we loudly call — 

What's death, or life, or morn, or night? 



87 



NOV 17 1899 



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